


just like streetcars

by Ruriruri



Category: KISS (US Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21980623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriruri/pseuds/Ruriruri
Summary: “Y’know it goes both ways, right?”“What?”“Getting off to it.” The strobe lights flashing against Ace’s face were making Gene squint just to see him properly. That little, amused glint that Ace couldn’t hide from anyone was full on his face as he spoke. “Guys wanna see two chicks go at it, sure, that ain’t rocket science. But girls, they wanna see two guys just as bad.”
Relationships: Ace Frehley/Gene Simmons
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	just like streetcars

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas giftfic for planet-neun on tumblr (who also gets ample credit for her input on the basement scene and makeup choices, all of which really helped me out while I was stuck!)! Thank you for being a wonderful, lovely friend. I’m really blessed and grateful to know you, each and every day.

“just like streetcars”

by Ruriruri

“D’you dance, Gene?”

“Not really.”

“D’you wanna learn?”

“Huh?”

Gene couldn’t understand him over Studio 54’s usual obnoxious din. He tilted his head slightly, raised a hand to his ear just in case Ace hadn’t heard him, either. Not unlikely around here.

“I said, d’you wanna learn?” Ace’s tone still managed to be lazily affable even when he had to raise his voice. Ace didn’t push much. No, that was an understatement. Ace didn’t push at all. Not with Gene. He had seen Ace cajole Bobby occasionally, but it was always over inconsequential things, things they’d be doing anyway. Asking him for a kiss before a show, or while he was teasing his hair for a photoshoot (“you’re good luck for me, Bobby, you always are”). Gene would watch, shake his head a little bit at the antics.

It wasn’t even just with Bobby. No, Ace made out with Peter often enough, too, whether out of fascination or boredom. Gene didn’t get it. Maybe it was just some strange hedonistic impulse. They’d all indulged, to one extent or another. Regular sex with the groupies had gotten monotonous just because it was so inevitable. They were so easy, so bizarrely willing. Not even blinking at the fetishes and roleplays Gene would sometimes ask out of them. Five, six, seven girls in his bed—he couldn’t even fuck them all in one night, but he’d still bring them in. He wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to prove. Maybe just that he  _ could _ get them.

Maybe that was what motivated Ace. Kissing his best friend just because he could, like a modern-day Roman emperor high on his own power. Maybe that motivated Ace and Peter both, really. A middle finger to the establishment, just like Bowie’s bisexual claims. Except unlike Bowie, they were backing them up at every single turn. Falling right in line with seven-inch leather heels and dog collars, and distinctly out of line with schoolkid lunchboxes and thermoses. Stooping down until they ran out of depravities to commit.

Gene might believe it if Ace ever looked like he was committing a depravity, but he never did. He’d kiss Bobby or Pete just as warmly, just as ardently as he’d kiss Jeanette. No discussion, but no shame, either. Gene didn’t see how Ace could—keep on like that, not differentiate, and not have it haunt him. Paul couldn’t. It bothered the hell out of the poor guy to—

“Learn?” It took Gene a second or two too long to repeat the question. Ace tilted his head, leaning in more than he needed to. Practically peering. Less sense of personal space than a wandering toddler.

Not that that was unusual, around here. Studio 54, even on the VIP floor, even in the corner of the lounge area they were tucked into, was nothing but bodies smashed against bodies. The din was overwhelming. Worse than a concert. Floor always shaking, the insistent, pulsating bass blaring from the speakers. Topless girls everywhere. Drag queens dressed in tutus. Sodom and Gomorrah with a hearty splash of cocaine.

There was something so self-indulgently unfocused about the whole place, like he was trying to see through glazed windows every time he cut through the velvet-roped line and stepped inside. Paul liked it well enough; Peter wasn’t exactly immune, and Ace ate the damn discotheque up, but it just wasn’t Gene’s preferred scene, not really—not enough attention on him when guys like Rod Stewart and Mick Jagger would put in appearances.

“Yeah, learn.” Ace shrugged. “Why show up here if you’re not gonna dance and you’re not gonna drink?”

“It’s good promotion.”

“Promotion, my ass. You just wanna get a real easy lay.” Ace was grinning. His grasp on his oddly-untouched glass of champagne was flimsy at best, wobbling before he set it down. He stood, reaching out a hand. “C’mon. I’ll teach you.”

Gene took his hand, letting Ace pull him up and out of the booth. Whatever. Just another weird, wild hair on Ace’s part. Not worth arguing, not worth worrying about. Two guys dancing wouldn’t even get you blinked at here. Two guys  _ fucking _ wouldn’t even get you blinked at here. VIP or no. But it wasn’t just not seeing the harm in it that made Gene relent. No, there was something strange and almost-serious in Ace’s expression. Something that might have passed for sobriety.

This close, he could see the pockmarks and scars across Ace’s cheeks that all the dermabrasion sessions hadn’t managed to clear. Ace wasn’t as good with regular makeup as he was with the greasepaint, but he was enthusiastic. Slightly-smudged eyeliner, foundation, maybe even mascara. A little lipstick, just a shade or two deeper than Ace’s actual color. Femme, sure, but nothing really over the top. Ace didn’t look as much like a chick as he used to a few years ago, before the alcohol had started softening up his gut. But in the flickering light of the disco, he was still pretty and still androgynous. Ace cared more about looking good than Gene did, though he’d always had more to work with. Better features. Just worse skin. Gene let go of Ace’s hand once he was up, only for Ace to take it again, tugging him onto the floor.

“Okay, get your other hand—uh-uh, Gene, your hand’s gonna be on my shoulder. There you go.” Ace’s other hand was already on Gene’s back, pads of his fingers only a vague insinuation against his shirt. A far lighter touch than Gene had ever expected.

“You’re leading?”

“No shit,” Ace said, and laughed, softer than usual. “Don’t worry, I’ll treat you like a lady.”

Gene glanced past Ace and into the crowd on brief automatic. Not that it mattered when the press rarely got into this section of the disco. Most of the juicier photos only ended up in private collections, and most of the big names weren’t even out tonight. Even if they were, it would’ve been fine. Just fine. No one gave a damn around here. No one gave a damn who they’d fooled around with until the morning after, once the Quaaludes and cocaine highs wore off and all they were left with was themselves. A hell of a fate, really. Just a hell of a fate.

Ace squeezed his hand and Gene refocused, just in time to see Ace take a tentative, leaning step forward just as the next song came blaring through. The Stones in all their crackling fury, slamming in with their own seedy disco take. “Miss You,” with its saxophone and insistent underbelly of a bass line, and Jagger spewing out all his hollow denials. Brilliant stuff. Playing to the trends without losing sight of the band’s edge and swagger. KISS could do that. KISS  _ should _ do that.

“C’mon, Gene, loosen up,” Ace urged as Gene took an awkward step back in response. “Don’t be so stiff, you ain’t in heels right now.”

“Might make this more convincing,” Gene said. Ace didn’t say anything at first, just sort of smiled. “I don’t know if this has the right tempo—”

“Bullshit. Four-four time’s all we need.” Ace crooked his head to the side. A step forward, a step back. “Can’t believe Paul never helped you out any. Mirror me and you’re not gonna go wrong, yeah? ’S just like the shows.”

Just like the shows. Gene couldn’t help but snort at that. Just like the shows where the two of them would end up gyrating against each other in a synchronized simulation. Thighs locked between thighs. Barely any breathing space for the guitars.

He didn’t really remember when he’d started taking it further. Didn’t even remember his rationale for it. One night, Ace had tilted his head back the way he usually did, mouth pinched in a tight circle, and Gene had leaned in, leaned in, kept leaning until he could taste the sweat and paint dripping down from Ace’s face, and then he  _ was _ tasting it with every lap of his tongue against his neck. He’d watched Ace’s eyes go wide and his posture tense up, but he hadn’t missed a single note. By the time Gene pulled back, Ace’s expression was back to that glazed version of normal. By the time they were taking their bows, an hour later, he’d felt Ace grip his hand a little tighter, yank a bit, making Gene glance his way. Ace had been close enough then to whisper in his ear, just a few words even the crowd’s howls couldn’t steal away.

“Could you do that again? I dug it.”

He hadn’t specified. He hadn’t needed to. After that, Gene had kept licking his neck nearly every concert. It was funny, really. Ace and Peter fooled around openly, Paul on what he seemed to think was the sly, but the only time Gene ever really did anything vaguely queer was onstage. It wasn’t real there, any more than the fire-breathing or the blood-spewing. There was that comfortable distance, where they were and weren’t themselves anymore, just performers, just characters stomping and lurching around while the smoke bombs went off around them.

That comfortable distance was gone now as he danced with Ace. Forward and back, still stiff. Remarkably, Ace managed to keep from bumping into anybody. Gene kept looking him in the face at first, trying to figure out his expression. It was odd. Almost tense, his lips, fuller than Gene had realized, pursed in quick little moments. Ace wouldn’t hold his gaze for more than a second at a time, either, and so Gene gave up after awhile, started looking past his shoulder. A couple feet away, he saw two guys messing around—guys from some newer band he couldn’t remember—and there on the floor was a brunette Playmate in nothing but her underwear, sitting on a guy’s face, her lacy panties brushing up against his chin and tongue. Gene’s breath hitched. Forward and back, and he tilted his head, watching the chick as her hips pushed up and the guy lapped against the lingerie at first, then pressed his tongue beneath the cloth. Her head bent towards the ceiling, but not before she threw Gene a smile.

“What’re you looking at?” Ace’s voice in his ear, that uneven warble.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Ace was grinning at him. The hand on his back pressed just a bit harder, tugging him forward. “Maybe I wanna see.”

“Ace—” Gene started, but Ace was turning them both around already, leaving him stumbling out of step, their places swapped. Now the only sight over Ace’s shoulder was a passed-out guy in just his socks and boxers. Not half as arousing.

“ _ Oh _ . Oh, yeah, okay.”

Gene expected Ace to linger on the girl, make a come-on or encouraging quip, but he didn’t. Just winked at her—maybe at him, too, and turned them back around again. She’d raised her head. Gene could’ve sworn she’d mouthed his name as her hand raised to her own breast, pushed past the flimsy bra and squeezed. The man between her thighs kept going, his head shifting with every move of his tongue—Gene couldn’t see his face and didn’t want to; he was only the instrument she was using to get off.

“Didn’t think you were much of a voyeur, Gene,” Ace said. “I dunno why, when you always bring so many girls up to your room—you get ’em to fool around for you?”

“Sometimes.” Another step. Jagger still in the background, rambling about the Puerto Rican girls.  _ Just dyin’ to meet you. _ Gene’s movements were a little more fluid now, with his eyes on the chick, the most important focal point in view. “Nothing… nothing too—”

“Wild?” Ace laughed. This close and he could smell his breath. No scent of alcohol at all. Like he was cleaning up, the way he’d do during recording sessions, except they weren’t recording. His wavy hair, half the black dye gone, brushed up against the side of Gene’s face. “C’mon, man, I know better. What’d they do for you?”

“Sometimes they’ll kiss each other.” They’d think they had a leg up on the competition if they did. They’d pair off, crush their lips together and then turn to see if he was still watching. “Sometimes take each other’s clothes off. Touch each other a little.”

“For a degenerate, you suck at descriptions.” The hand on his back tightened. “Do they get each other off? Or do they gotta wait on you for that?”

“They…” It wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have with his bandmate. Any of them, but Ace especially. The reporters, the press interviews, they were one thing. He could dance around with rife insinuations and implications. But he couldn’t discuss the girls with the other guys. Not at length. It just got too stupid, turned into dick-measuring and teasing from all sides until he was too fed up for it. “They’re too shy, mostly.”

“’S sweet.” Ace’s other hand, the one clasped in his, shifted slightly, fingertips circling his knuckles, catching on the rings there. “Y’know it goes both ways, right?”

“What?”

“Getting off to it.” The strobe lights flashing against Ace’s face were making Gene squint just to see him properly. That little, amused glint that Ace couldn’t hide from anyone was full on his face as he spoke. “Guys wanna see two chicks go at it, sure, that ain’t rocket science. But girls, they wanna see two guys just as bad.”

“Like I believe that.”

“You should.” Ace’s steps were wider now, encroaching on his space a bit more. Gene wasn’t moving back as much as he ought to, and he knew it. “Some kind of psychological shit. Even back… back in the Village, I had it figured…”

Gene’s hand slipped from Ace’s shoulder. There was a little sweat left behind, dampening Ace’s shirt, barely-visible. As if he’d actually exerted himself on what wasn’t even a dancefloor. He hesitated, pushing his focus back to the girl, still straddling the guy’s face. The look in her eyes as her hips twisted. The look in her eyes as she unclasped her bra, revealing hardened pink nipples and suntanned skin. The smirk when she tossed it toward him, though it only skidded the dirty floor.

“She’s giving you a show still, huh?” Soft, soft. Jagger’s tirade was almost over, the last of the saxophones fading out over the insistent pump of the bass. Another second and they’d drop another record downstairs. Gene pulled Ace forward, trying to keep him from stepping on the bra, and Ace complied easily, closing in on what little distance was left between them. Ace didn’t reach to take Gene’s other hand, didn’t try to place it back on his shoulder. Ace’s steps slowed, then stopped, voice barely a whisper. “Let’s give her one back. Least we could do, yeah?”

“Ace,” Gene started. The syllable sounded forced. A million responses were there in his brain.  _ Ace, this is stupid _ , as though something being stupid had ever stopped Ace.  _ Ace, you’re drunk _ , except for once, ridiculous as it seemed, Gene didn’t think he was. At least, he hadn’t had that champagne. And he’d turned down Steve Rubell’s offer of coke at the door. A minor miracle, as Ace’s long, thin fingers stroked the back of his palm before letting go, as languid and careless as if he was releasing a guitar pick. The Playmate was looking at him again, cupping her breasts in her hands, dark eyes smoldering— _ let’s give her one back _ —and Gene felt himself nod and he felt himself lean in, to meet a pair of lips he’d never touched before.

Ace tugged him in almost immediately. Pressed tight enough that he could almost hear the click of their belt buckles as Ace kissed him back, not cautious at all, just warm and easy. Gene could taste his lipstick, the sweet, faint remnants of soda on his mouth. Feel Ace’s arm wrap around him, his hand warm against the back of his neck.

He wasn’t looking at the girl now. His tongue was in Ace’s mouth, searching, wanting. He’d lapped Ace’s neck hundreds of times, tongue tracing the sharp outline of his throat, pressing against his pulse to the sound of the screaming crowd and the beat of Peter’s drums, but there was no comparison to the taste, the feel of him now. No comparison in the world.

It was Ace who broke the kiss, his cheek still against his jaw, lips at his ear. Just a soft mumble at first, almost inaudible.

“She ain’t getting a real good look.”

“I guess not.”

“You wanna give her one?” and Gene nodded, strangely emboldened. He never had participated in Ace and Peter and Paul’s stupid threesomes, where they’d have a groupie between them who’d suck one off while the other plowed her. He hadn’t wanted that kind of excess. Hadn’t wanted to be around his bandmates that much, to the point even sex got shared. But this was different. The girl wasn’t between them. No buffer. It wasn’t even for her that he grasped Ace’s hip and turned him, wondering, somehow, if this was how it had started, with Bobby, with Peter, wondering and not caring at all.

The Playmate—last October’s girl, if he remembered right—grinned widely once they were both in view. The man between her thighs shifted, turned his head, nose slick with her fluids, and caught a glimpse that Gene was too heady to give a damn about. Ace started back in without a pause, one hand sliding under Gene’s shirt, coursing up it as their lips met again and again. Just a show, except it wasn’t a show at all. It wasn’t a show at all unless he made it one.

Gene’s hand felt heavy and cumbersome, useless except to hold onto Ace’s hip, keep him steady as he rocked against him, the friction almost familiar. He’d let Ace grind against his leg during dozens of concerts. Let him rub up on him measure after measure during his solos. But feeling Ace’s hard-on against his own, their jeans the only barrier between them, and the girl on the floor the only pretense—traipsed right out of that play-pretend territory and into something deeper. Something more real than the thump of the bass and the dirty floor at their feet, more honest than superhero costumes and movie deals. Not debauched like he’d thought, but warm, too warm, as Ace’s lipstick smeared across his skin and Gene reached out, cupping his cheek, the look in Ace’s dark eyes far away and needy.

“You okay, Ace?”

Ace made a soft sound of assent. He kissed Gene again. Despite Gene’s hand on his hip, he was still pistoning them eagerly against Gene’s own, making Gene feel as if all his blood had suddenly pooled right to his cock. He was swallowing his own small groans as if the blaring music wasn’t covering them up, while Ace’s hand beneath his shirt traced and rubbed all over his back, like he was trying to memorize the pattern of his skin. Wanting, not claiming. Ace had never claimed anything that Gene had noticed. Nothing beyond his teasing brush and his costume leotards with his name stitched on the back. Everything else, he’d allowed others to own. Paul had lifted his name years before he’d known him, to no protest at all; Gene and Peter both had his songs, freely given, sung every night. Gene didn’t understand it. Laying ownership to what you wanted, what was yours, was essential. He’d learned that at six, selling fruit for pennies in Israel. Ace, at twenty-eight, hadn’t yet figured that out.

“Ace, c’mon, let’s—let’s go to the basement,” Gene panted out. He didn’t specify further. He didn’t need to. Ace knew what was down there as well as he did. A setup as unglamorous and obvious as any. Leftover decorations and set pieces littered the floor. No more than a couple dozen people were in the whole basement at a time, ever, all holed up in rooms with dirty mattresses on the floor. In a club designed for debauchery, the basement was the only place to fuck privately. Ace crooked a smile.

“What about the girl?”

“I’m not gonna—”

“You got way too much shame, man.” Ace slid his hand out from under Gene’s shirt, patted his back before peeling away from him. He gestured with his thumb, all amused, like Gene didn’t know the way. “All right. Let’s go.”

And down the stairs they went, stepping over passed-out ingenues and burn-outs, could’ve-beens and never-was. One grasped at Gene’s foot in recognition, but he managed to maneuver free without Ace’s help, though he laughed (“did you give her a baby, Geno? You’ve got way too many as-is”), having to grip the railing to keep from stumbling.

The doorman recognized them both immediately, letting them in the basement without a second’s hesitation. The shambles of the basement were before them then, the musty smell of sex almost overwhelming, but Gene didn’t care. He’d fucked in worse places. The rat-infested backstage of those old ballrooms. Their old practice space, covered with egg cartons. He grabbed Ace by the arm, unthinking, urgent, tugging him to the nearest room. The light was already on, the bare spring mattresses, stained with semen and glitter and, probably, traces of cocaine, spread on the floor. No different from last time he’d come.

He turned, seeing Ace lock the door behind them, and then they were at it again, Gene backing Ace up against the wall before long, not out of real intent so much as happenstance, like the dance steps Ace hadn’t taught. Ace was panting against him, struggling with his own belt, fingers that were so deft on his Les Paul, so tight against a glass or champagne or a bottle of beer, somehow useless against the leather. Gene helped him unbuckle it, but then Ace was scrambling to loosen Gene’s belt, almost desperate, as if the chance was evaporating in front of him. Gene let him, then, trying to keep his face straight, keep his ego in check. But Ace stopped just as suddenly, hands reaching out to Gene’s jeans only to stop at the zipper, not even yanking them down.

“You don’t fuck around with guys,” Ace said. Just a statement. No judgment. Gene looked at Ace, finally properly looked at him, the florescent but unchanging light almost a welcome reprieve from the strobes and spotlights upstairs. The lipstick was smudged, rubbed off in the center and smeared at the corners, foundation melting. The girl was four flights of stairs away. All Gene’s excuses for the evening were gone—except they didn’t matter. He didn’t want to use them.

“Not in general.”

“Not ever. I know. But you,” and Ace hesitated, mouth contorting oddly, “you gotta tell me you wanna—”

“I want to.”

Ace visibly relaxed. He slid down the zipper then, fingers locked around Gene’s belt loops, shoving his jeans down along with his underwear, only down to his thighs. He did the same with his own, yanking them down just enough to expose his erection. Gene inhaled sharply, feeling Ace’s eyes on him, still dark and impossible to figure out, as Ace reached for his dick, fingers twitching just before closing around him. Grunting, Gene leaned in, one hand pressed against Ace’s shoulder, the other lax at his side. He tilted his head, kissed Ace’s neck while Ace started to pump, quickly, moving up and down his shaft, the dry friction of his palm barely slickened by sweat. Gene jerked in his hand, breathing hard, feeling Ace’s hard-on up against his thigh, and then he reached out and grasped Ace’s dick.

Something in Ace’s face changed then. The inscrutable look in his eyes vanished, something open, almost raw replacing it. Like he really didn’t believe it. This close and Gene could feel him panting, those little, high intakes of breath as Gene began to stroke. Small, oddly soft curses spilled from Ace’s mouth when it wasn’t pressed to Gene’s. Gene had his doubts on his own technique, but Ace’s gasps and the roll of his hips were proof enough. A little faster, a little harder, the upstairs bass pounding in his ears, flooding everything in its own tempo, as Ace’s steady palm on his cock created a maddening rhythm all its own.

He was shuddering against Ace before long, only steadied by his grip on Ace’s shoulder. Ace came before he did with a quiet moan, spurting hot all over his hand and against him, staining his shirttail. Gene was too close himself to care, cursing and grunting, every thought beyond his own pleasure long since out of view. He dropped his hold on Ace’s dick, thoughtless, his damp hand reaching for Ace’s other shoulder, vying for something, some anchor to grasp onto while he shuddered into his orgasm, gasping for breath against the crook of Ace’s neck.

Ace didn’t let him go until it was over, down to that last thread of come. He looked bleary, out of it—no different from normal, at a cursory glance. But this close, there was more; this close, there was a strange easiness to him. Gene took his hands from Ace’s shoulders, looking at the stain he’d left behind, shaking his head.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’ll—”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Ace was grinning again, in that way that made him look like a kid. Dark eyes all lit up and almost mischievous.“Besides, I got you pretty good there, didn’t mean to.”

“What, my shirt? I’ll just tuck it back in.”

“It’s not just there.” Ace looked at his own hand, licking off Gene’s come almost absentmindedly, while pointing with his other hand, where the errant come was clotted on his thigh and hip. “Here… and right here, hang on, I’ll get it off you—I know they’ve got tissues—”

“I’ve got it,” Gene started, but Ace shook his head.

“Uh-uh. I said I’d treat you like a lady, didn’t I? I meant it.” Ace didn’t bother pulling up his jeans before crossing over to the other side of the room, coming back with a box of tissues. “Fucking swear, Gene. People begging to get in here every damn night and they ain’t even bothering with lube in the basement. Figures, yeah?”

“That would cut into their profit margin.”

“Profit margin,” Ace repeated, then giggled loudly, reaching to wipe the come off Gene. Gene tried not to move while he did it—nothing erotic in the touch, just oddly careful, oddly gentle as he ran the tissue across his skin. “There’s more important shit than that, y’know?”

“I know.”

Ace crumpled up the tissues when he was done, dropping them on the floor. He took a second handful and wiped himself off, too, not nearly as carefully, barely dabbing at the semen stain on his shirt. Gene watched him for a second before yanking his jeans back up and zipping up. He was buckling back his belt by the time Ace spoke again.

“Hey, Gene.”

“Yeah?”

Ace wasn’t quite looking at him, not directly. The old trick Gene had watched out of Paul a hundred times at least, staring an interviewer or a fan or even him in the mouth instead of the eye, just to quell his own anxiety. The exact same thing. Gene waited.

“You’re pretty good to dance with, man.”

Gene reached over on impulse. Ace didn’t freeze up when his hand closed briefly over his, and squeezed. The slow, bright smile was back on his face, and it stayed there long after Gene answered, long after they’d trudged up the stairs and sunk into the limo’s backseat, Studio 54’s neon lights fading in the rearview mirror. Long after. Long after.

“You, too.”


End file.
